I opened the page

 I opened the page…

thinking it would just hold words.
Just ink.
Just lines.
Just something quiet
to keep my thoughts from overflowing.
But it didn’t stay that way.
Because the moment I wrote your name…
something shifted.
The page didn’t feel empty anymore.
It felt… alive.
Like it was holding more than letters.
Like it was carrying something
that couldn’t be contained in ink.
You.
I tried to write you gently…
carefully…
like if I chose the right words
I could keep you close.
I wrote about your eyes…
the way they always found me.
I wrote about your presence…
how it filled every space
without ever asking for anything in return.
But the more I wrote…
the more it felt like the page was breathing.
Like every word was pulling something deeper out of me…
something I didn’t realize I was still holding.
Because you weren’t just memories.
You were movement.
Warmth.
Life itself.
And somehow…
that life found its way here.
Into these lines.
Into this silence.
Into something that feels more like you
than anything I could ever say out loud.
I stopped writing for a moment…
just to sit with it.
Because I could feel you there.
Not as a thought.
Not as something distant.
But as something close…
something present…
something that hadn’t left the way I feared.
And I realized…
maybe this page isn’t just paper.
Maybe it’s a place
where love refuses to disappear.
Where everything I felt for you…
everything you gave me…
keeps moving… keeps breathing…
even without you here.
Because love like yours
doesn’t stay still.
It finds ways to live on.
In quiet pages.
In soft moments.
In the spaces where I let myself feel you again.
So now…
when I write…
I don’t try to capture you.
I just let you come through.
And somehow…
in every word that forms…
you’re still here.
Not as something I lost…
but as something that keeps living
in everything I create…
in everything I feel…
in every page that still
breathes you.